


Sent Away Standing

by Sineala



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 12:36:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1983279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I shame him. I shame them all. And yet I am the last of us."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sent Away Standing

**Author's Note:**

> So recently someone posted on Tumblr somewhere (I can't find a link, so if this was you, let me know and I'll credit you) that it would be great if there were a story where Marcus got into a fight with someone at a market because they wouldn't sell anything to Esca.
> 
> This... is really not that story. Whoops.

"Oh!" says Esca, cheerfully, shading his eyes with his hand to peer at one of the market-stalls a little further away. "Honeycakes, Marcus!"

If there is one Roman thing Esca loves, it is honeycakes. Marcus had not guessed this, would never have guessed this, would in fact have suggested that perhaps, of all Rome's marks on the world, Esca might have best enjoyed the baths, the running water, the underfloor heat of the hypocaust in the bitter chill of winter. No. It is honeycakes.

And if there is one Roman Esca loves... well, Marcus need not guess at that, for he knows the answer very well indeed.

Marcus grins, warmed by the sudden rush of fondness. "Honeycakes it is, then." How can he not agree, when they will make Esca so happy?

The man selling the cakes is staring at them.

He is older, his face lined and scarred, and he peers at both of them with startlingly blue eyes. He is British, of course, not that he was likely to be anything else; the sleeveless tunic he wears shows off a grand pattern of inking on both his arms, far wider and more complicated than the band Esca bears. And he has a great gruff mustache. Definitely British, then.

But still the vendor is squinting at them as if he has seen them somewhere before. Does Marcus know him? Marcus tries to think of a time when he could have met this man. Esca has been teaching him some knowledge of the tribes' customs, and he already knew that only Atrebates lived here. At Isca he only knew Dumnonii, and... he does not think so many of them survived.

"Esca?" the man says, face slackening in disbelief, and Marcus realizes that it's not him the man remembers.

Esca starts to smile. "Vindios?" he offers, in return.

The man -- Vindios, Marcus supposes -- nods, and asks something in British; his voice is low and inquisitive. Marcus wishes now that he had gotten Esca to teach him more words of his own tongue, for it is hardly fair between them when it was only Esca who had to learn Marcus' language, after all. Oh, he knows a few words, the sweet things Esca whispers to him at night, the words he gasps out as they lie together... but none of that is helpful here. These are not caring words.

Esca blanches, alarmingly pale, and then color rises in his cheeks. He tilts his head up, proud, defiant, and Marcus wonders what is going on here. He had thought this Vindios must have been a friend, but Esca would never act thus to a friend. He remembers the way Esca threw a dagger at his feet, once, the way Esca threw his sword to the ground in the arena.

"Esca," Marcus says, reaching out, wrapping a hand around Esca's arm, feeling the wiry muscle tense under his fingertips. "Tell me, what did he say?"

Esca shrugs off his hand.

Vindios' eyes narrow, and Marcus is uncomfortably aware that he too is being inspected. Judged. The man's gaze passes between the two of them, and then his mouth curls in a sneer. He speaks -- in British, again -- but nothing about the tone is nice.

Lunging forward, Esca punches Vindios in the face.

Vindios is heavier and was half-braced for it; he hardly moves at all, and Marcus can only watch in horror, frozen, as Vindos rises to his feet, towering over Esca. He swings out with one huge fist. Esca's head snaps back and there is blood on Esca's face, on _his_ Esca--

Esca can't do this alone.

Hardly aware that he is moving at all, Marcus finds himself between the two of them, and there's a hand on his tunic, grabbing him, yanking him backwards.

"It is my honor," Esca snarls, in Latin, into his ear. "And I will defend it. Damn you, Marcus, don't you dare stop me--"

"Why would I?" asks Marcus, suddenly breathless, lightheaded. Does Esca think he wouldn't fight for him?

Marcus twists out of Esca's grasp, raises his fists, and hits Vindios, one-two, solidly in the chest, a blow that ought to stun him for a bit. He looks back to see Esca, staring at him, wide-eyed, blood dripping messily from his nose, running down his face, staining his tunic. There is a dark, hidden cast to his gaze, a gathering storm, something akin fear or shame, and Marcus suddenly hates this stranger for putting that look into Esca's eyes.

This is of course when Vindios kicks him in his bad leg and they go down in a messy tangle, with Esca leaping in atop them. Someone -- he thinks it might have been Esca -- elbows him in the ribs, but he hardly notices. He keeps hitting and hitting until someone drags them away.

* * *

Esca's breath has a rather alarming whistling quality to it, and Marcus looks over, concerned, as they walk back to the villa together.

"Your nose isn't broken, is it?"

It's the first thing either of them have said since that -- whatever it was. Esca obviously doesn't want to discuss it.

Esca shrugs. "I don't think so." His face is still a bloody mess, slowly drying brown, but the words are clear enough and his nose appears to be the same shape as always. Marcus lets out a relieved breath and then winces at the sharp stab of pain in his ribs as he does so. Esca glances over. "Are you well?"

"Fine."

They walk in silence for a few more steps, and then Esca stops and throws his arms out. Marcus can't tell if he's frustrated or angry, but the same awful darkness still lurks in his eyes. "You didn't even," Esca begins, haltingly. "You don't even know what he said-- why did you?"

Their eyes meet and Marcus smiles, trying to put as much trust in it as he can, as if by his gaze alone he could fix belief in Esca. For Esca. "You needed me," he says, simply. "You have fought for my honor. You think I would not fight for yours, on your word?"

Esca sighs and turns back to the road, walking on, a few steps ahead of him. "Sometimes," Esca says, very, very softly, "I wish you weren't so good."

He doesn't understand. He tries to hold out a hand, but Esca won't take it.

* * *

They don't speak again until they are back in Marcus' uncle's villa, empty of all but the bare minimum of slaves; Uncle himself is in Aquae Sulis enjoying the waters. 

"You should take that off," Marcus says, motioning to Esca's tunic. "See if anyone can get the blood out."

Esca looks up from where he is slipping into house-sandals and shakes his head. Somewhere along the way he wiped his face on his tunic, and at least his face is clean now because the tunic certainly isn't; it looks like he's been acting as a temple priest on a day full of suppliants.

"No."

"Come now," Marcus says, reaching for him. "It's-- you're a mess."

But Esca steps back, dodging his grasp, and a hideous knife of fear twists into Marcus's gut, for Esca doesn't-- he never-- Esca always touches him. Esca never minds his touch. What is wrong?

Esca's eyes now are downcast, and he hisses through his teeth. "I do not think you realize how much your uncle's slaves gossip." It is almost a hostile tone, each word picked out carefully. "If they are scrubbing my bloodstained clothes, they will talk."

Marcus stares, bewildered. "Do I look as if I care?"

Then Esca's head snaps up. "Do you think you're the only one who counts, Marcus?" His words are vicious now, and his eyes wild.

"I-- no, of course not--" He fumbles for something, anything to say. Why is Esca acting thus? What in the world did that man say to him?

Esca sighs, all at once, and the heat goes out of him, a lamp extinguished.

"Let's talk somewhere else," he says.

Marcus lets Esca lead him -- when doesn't he, really? -- and they end up all the way on the other side of the house, in the small, neatly-kept garden. The weather is just a little too hot to be pleasant, especially for the pale Britons, and so the garden is empty. He cannot hear any slaves afoot, and he wonders if Esca drew them away from the main areas of the house on purpose.

They sit. On the same bench. Esca still does not touch him.

"I was a good swordsman, you know," says Esca, abruptly, conversationally, as if they have already been talking about this.

Marcus remembers the way Esca fought beside him in the north, his skill, his grace in combat. "I know."

"No, you don't know." Esca's voice is cold again; somehow Marcus has said the wrong thing. "When you first saw me, I was trying to die. You never saw me fight."

He realizes too late exactly what Esca meant by _swordsman_. "Oh."

"I was very good," Esca continues. The words are low and frighteningly so, even now, with no feeling in them. "I'd been fighting for years. It was far from my first fight. The crowd used to adore me. It wasn't my first death-fight, either."

He wonders if Esca knew the men he fought with well. He wonders if Esca had ever killed a friend, two friends, ten friends, if Esca had smiled and laughed and shared meals with the fighter who had put his sword to Esca's throat on that Saturnalia. He wonders why he's never thought about this before, why Esca has never said anything.

He has no idea what to say. He wants to ask what this, what any of this has to do with the man in the market, but he opens and closes his mouth, stupidly. Finally words come to him. "But you stopped fighting."

"I realized they wouldn't let me win. Not in the way that counted. No wooden sword for me."

Marcus thinks of Esca lying in the sand, his face as bloodied then as it had been just now, and a sick shudder rocks him to the very marrow of his bones. He would have died. How could he have thought to do that? If it had been his first fight, if Esca had been too proud to fight... Marcus understood that. But if he'd been fighting all along? Why then should he have given up?

"Why?" asks Marcus, hoarse. "How could you have just decided to die? And what does this this have to do with that man?" 

Esca looks up at him, his eyes angry flint-grey sparks in the sunlight. "I am not sure you will be able to understand."

Sheer indignation makes him clench his fists. "I am not _stupid_."

There is a faint smile on Esca's face, the first smile he has seen since they met the honeycake-seller, and for that Marcus treasures it. "You could never be," says Esca, the fierce affection coming up around Marcus, guarding him, locking him in like shields in a wall, all the stronger for it. "But you are... Roman. I do not think it is a thing you have ever had to think about. It is hard to put into words."

"Try?"

His voice is weaker than he meant it to sound; Esca smiles again, but then he sighs, long and low, as if he has been struck in the chest.

"The man in the forum knew me... before. He did not approve."

"Of what?"

Esca changes the subject. "You told me once," says Esca, "while we were on our journey in the north, that to you the Eagle we were searching for was more than metal. Do you remember that?"

Marcus nods. "I told you it was Rome."

"Just so." Esca looks up at him, and he bites his lip before he speaks. "You are also Rome."

The words waver on the edge of nonsensical, but then Marcus remembers how it felt to join the army. To put on his armor, to hold his head high, to fight for his homeland. He had given himself over, to be a symbol. He nods. "Yes, when I was in the army--"

Esca shakes his head. "Not only then. Now and forever. You are still Rome. You cannot be otherwise."

Horror rises, choking Marcus' throat, swamping him in wordless, nameless dread. After all they've been through -- after all they are to each other -- is Esca really saying that he only sees him as some faceless Roman, akin to a thousand others?

"Is that-- is that really what you think? You look at me and you see-- immortal gods, Esca, I don't even know what you see--"

"No!" Esca says, too quickly, and looks away. When he glances up his eyes are glassy, too wet. "Yes-- no. Not like-- I'm explaining this badly." He takes a rasping, dragging breath, and Marcus wonders if Esca's going to cry. Please, no.

"Esca," he says, desperately.

"Imagine this," Esca says, a little steadier, looking away again. "Imagine that you have gone to the sea, and there is a storm, with a great wave coming toward you. It could push you under. It could drown you. And you, standing there, must decide whether to brace yourself, to fight back, to endure the wave, to endure wave after wave, or to let it drag you under."

"I would fight it," Marcus says, and the words sound like a prayer.

Esca half-smiles. "Of course you would have, my Marcus. I did, once." He draws one knee up to his chest, awkwardly; there isn't nearly enough room on the bench, and he wraps his hands around his leg, drawing in on himself. "I am a son of the Brigantes, and I was raised to believe that Romans were the enemy. All Romans. No matter who. You were here. You were invading. You took what was ours."

Although Esca's tone is not in the slightest accusatory, Marcus can feel himself tense into readiness to defend against it. "I-- I understand."

"I went down fighting," Esca says, sounding very distant, now. "I was the only one who lived. And so I-- I had to stay alive. For them. For my clan, for my family. I had to fight back in the arena, to honor them, to try to win free. But I was a slave seven years. The burden grew heavier. I didn't think I should be the one to carry it. I couldn't. I thought I should have died in battle, with honor. And I couldn't-- I couldn't bear it any longer. So I did... what I did. I would be dead, yes, but in my own way I would have been free."

"You would go to that sea," Marcus murmurs, "and let yourself fall."

Esca nods. "I did not expect to survive that."

"I saved you."

"I was furious."

"Oh, I know," Marcus says, remembering. "But I don't understand how any of this-- what it all has to do with each other."

"I am the last of my clan. Sometimes I think about... what I am doing. What I have done. And I love you, Marcus, I love you more than the telling of it, but if my father knew I loved a Roman he would have wept, he would have raged, he would have cast me out. I know he would. I shame him. I shame them all. And yet I am the last of us. I am the man who represents their clan. Cunoval's son has a Roman lover. He would have wished me dead first."

Marcus catches his breath. "Esca, no--"

"Not only him." Esca almost laughs, an awful, strangled sound. "My mother gave herself to death so the Romans would not touch her. And I, well, I welcome a Roman's touch, don't I?"

"Not any Roman," Marcus says, in the smallest voice, smaller than he knew he possessed.

Esca rests his face against his knee. "It doesn't-- didn't matter to them. I could describe to them how wonderful you are, how you are the best man I've known, how you are kind and good and loving and everything I was told you could never be, and they would never, ever believe me."

He can't think of what any of this means. He can't. "Are you saying you don't want--"

He feels Esca's hand on his jaw, Esca lifting his chin, and Esca is looking him in the eyes now, his gaze bright and determined. "I'm saying I have made my choice. But some choices are harder than others. I wanted you to... see the choice I made. To understand what you were defending. In the forum."

Marcus exhales. "And everyone makes this choice?"

"I do not know how it is in other provinces. But in Britain, yes." Esca holds an arm out as if to point at the entire isle. "Some men sign treaties and smile and earn fine Roman villas. Some men earn themselves wars."

"And some men love Romans?" Marcus offers.

Esca nods and finally, finally unfolds himself and leans close. He is shaking. "No regrets," he whispers. "I can't regret you. I don't."

"I am glad of that."

"My Roman," Esca says, his voice some strange mingling of fondness and anguish.

Marcus drops his head onto Esca's shoulder. "I cannot be otherwise." He can't apologize for being him. He knows Esca doesn't want him to. He doesn't know what else to say.

"I know. I'll work with what the gods gave me," murmurs Esca, and he kisses him.

He tastes like salt and metal, tears and blood, but it will be well, it will be. They have sworn it.


End file.
